


Unfurling Black Wings

by Abby_Ebon



Category: Eragon (2006), Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling, Inheritance Cycle - Christopher Paolini
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2012-07-12
Updated: 2012-07-12
Packaged: 2017-11-09 20:29:49
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 8,142
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/458060
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Abby_Ebon/pseuds/Abby_Ebon
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Harry Potter & Eragon X-Over. Facts do not change, though Harry may wish so. He could not save his Rider. He could not save himself, for he is Shruikan, unwilling dragon slave to the tyrant Galbatorix. He'll be damned, though, before he lets Murtagh fall.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Laid Still In Darkness

**Author's Note:**

> I should have guessed 'playing' on the "Dragon Cave" site (click my eggs? They are located with links on my author page) would awaken my old love of dragons…this is partly to blame, I am sure, the rest of that happy inspiration came in a review and challenge for this pairing by Magician of the light. Much bowing, clapping, and singing of praise should be given; if not, well, you should know I'm miffed at you.
> 
> I'm not sure where this will go; I'm well versed in Harry Potter, but my Eragonstories number a grand total of…a three-ish number, kind-of. This will be the first Eragon story that wasn't written in some way for Chaos Silk. So…I hope no one has read Brisinger; as I have not…no telling, aye?

He laid in the dark, his head upon his forearms, eyes closed, his tail tip flicked upward and down – a small movement; his only movement save his breathing. If he moved, he would have remembered the chains, for they would clank with thick metal and grate at the stone. He would have remembered all the painful little moments that had led him to being kept here; he would have remembered his hatred.

Instead he was still, so much so it was as if he was not alive. Some would call it sleep, but it was not that; for in sleep you thought, you remembered, you lived; it was his way of forgetting. Of dying a little at a time, he could live forever – the one who kept him (as if he was some pet…) gloated with reminding him of this whenever on a whim he was visited.

It had been many years since he had felt the painful death of the last of his likeness. He was alone. No other could understand him, no other could connect with him as he craved. Even killing his own kind had been preferable to the depth of silence that hushed his thoughts, that screamed with the wrongness of being so alone.

He knows, though, that there was a chance. A slender one; which hangs from a thread so tightly wound that it might snap before the chance unravels. He can do nothing, all the same. He is helpless, bound by magic, chained to a monster for likely the whole of his life. There is not other chance for him, if he dies – the monster might; if the monster would die…well, he would welcome his own death. As it was, the stillness of his mind was like a mirror, reflecting only what was looked at. It was in this way that he had survived his imprisonment, even his own self loathing at being treated as he was.

He wished he could have forgotten his name, like so many of his kind had. He had not, neither would he ever do so - for it had come with the terrible truth as his true name was revealed and used against him. He was Shruikan. He was Harry Potter; and he knew now a truth of what truly separated a witch and wizard from those they deemed ordinary, it was magic, the lifeblood of those born with the ability to use magic as they willed. They were magic, and magic, it turned out, was not only within them, but flesh and bone echoed with power they did not will, that happened, seemingly at the whim of magic itself.

Something so entwined with magic did not merely die when it ceased to breath. In some way it lived on, he was proof of this. Harry did not know if this was _his_ world after so much change it could not be remembered as it had been, he could not stir up an idea of what had happened if that was a truth… or, only a different world that had always been the way he knew it to be, as he lived and breathed in it.

His chance for death – or a life longing for everlasting death – lay with three dragon eggs, he did not know what might emerge from those eggs that would be, perhaps, the last of his kind. Did not know if it would be Hermione, or Ron, or someone else he knew from his life before this one. He had thought perhaps they would remember him, if they – like he – knew their true names. Though that would not be any sort of kindness if they were born to be tied to the life of another – elf or human, it did not seem to matter.

He knew only that he had been manipulated to kill his own kind; that he was kept against his will; while the one with the power to do so lived on, tied forever with his own life. He had been turned into nothing more then a slave. He had no excuses. He wanted to die, but was not allowed.

So he would wait. He would bid his time until he met one of the little dragons and their hapless humans (or arrogant elves) and then he would tell them what he knew – all of what he had done, all that he might do if used as a weapon once more – and of the death that he longed for, then offer them the chance kill him. It was a coward's chance, when he had once been a hero. Some might think it a low way to go, he was what he was, after all – and that was magic.

That was power. That was why he was kept like a pet. His power and magic had been leached off him since he had not even come naturally into this world. He could not even say that he was a wizard anymore, for he had only enough magic in him to live that was all. That was what his master deemed enough to live.

He would rather pass on that title of hero then to be tied all his life with a tangled mind to one who sought only to kill those that might be a threat. Those of his kind and like that might have been friends, if he had only not been taken under the sway of the monster that called himself a Rider.

His chance lived on, still, in a little blue hatchling that had grown to be what Harry had aspired of her to be, he was proud of that little one. Her mind had touched his only once, she called herself Saphira, for he had warned her when she had hatched to tell no one of her true name (or the true name of her human) not even her Rider, who she loved and trusted in such a way he envied. She had grown older now, still as shinning and lovely as she had been at birth, though wary of him now, knowing what he was – one of the two, last of their kind, and knowing also that she must kill him or feel and see him die by another's hand; to see her Riders people free of the manipulations of his monster.

She had not yet accepted such a fate for him, thought he was between times amused and annoyed at her stubborn nature. Harry was reminded of Hermione – or Ginny – whenever he felt her mind press against his own; though he did not know – or think – that little Saphira could be either of them.

She had brought him interesting news, one day. She had revealed, filled with glee, that there was a third left; one who had been hidden since the time of the Wars, behind ancient wards. That one was Glaedr, of golden hide though the size of a small mountain. Harry had not bothered to seek out his mind, he feared what he would find – what this other would think of him, of what or who he could be – most of all he feared the strength of a mind like his own. Harry had only his mental power, if another as strong in presence of mind as himself put it to mind to change his ways of killing himself in this slow death; well, Harry did not know what might happen.

So he left Glaedr alone, and Saphira hand not mentioned him, as he had asked of her. He did not tell her everything, in hopes that she would doubt him and come to hate him in time so that he had some assurance he might die as he wanted. He had not told her of Thorn, the hatchling that shimmered like wet blood.

The littlest hatchling was young – though devoted to his human as he could be; he did not yet understand the tangled web that had been woven around them both as a trap. Harry had not been let near the hatchling – in fact, after his manipulator had found that Harry had done what he could to urge the magic not to let anything harm the egg or hatchling within with use of magic or force, he had been sealed away and left to rot at the base of mountains that burst from the land like piers.

Yet the hatchling knew of him, was in awe of him, and loathed the humans – even his own Rider – Harry did not know how such a thing had come to be. He was reminded of the fans he had had as the defeater of Voldemort. Thorn could be of their like, without knowing why he was the way he was. Some dragons had remembered feelings and connections without details – though they did not know why, exactly. Magic was vague, even to them.

Harry knew things were changing, for Thorn's little human - Murtagh - would be coming for a visit today; along with Harry's own hated manipulator, Galbatorix. All for lessons on how to bind a dragon to them; a useful lesson, for the likes of them. Harry did not know how Galbatorix had done it, so he used these chances to learn. Even while he pretended unaware in his stillness, Galbatorix did not know everything of his kin and kith, for Thorn – if he was allowed near (which he would never be) – would have known that he was as alive as he had always been, not merely in some magic replenishing sleep as was Galbatorix's little theory.

Harry felt the air change, a waft of a scent he had once thought imagined by poets. Air, outside – it was what he craved and longed for. What he was denied with his long imprisonment. He felt them near, coming as close as they dared – even as chained and burdened by magical leeches as Harry was, he was still physically intimidating, Galbatorix could not take that from him, though it was a irony.

He was starved, if any had bothered to care and look close, they would have seen that his skin clung close to bone and muscle, that his scales were dull of blood and shine of magic. That his wings were, while still useable, out of use and unlikely to lift him without great strain and possibly worse injury. Still, he was larger then any dragon alive – save, perhaps, Glaedr.

Being what he was, as a dragon, was impressive enough. Then he felt them move their power and minds against him, though they did not know it, by opening his mind – they opened their own minds to him. It was something that had taken years for Harry to find, this little loop of magical "logic".

He used it now, not to dig into the events Galbatorix planned and set into motion, but to find out about Murtagh. Saphira had known of this boy, and thought well of him until she and Eragon had faced him on the battle. Thorn thought him a worthy Rider, when the young dragon thought of him at all. It was odd that Thorn loathed humans, and when told what to do by Murtagh, loathed his own as well; other times though, Thorn thought of Murtagh fondly.

So Harry looked. He glimpsed into memories, of a boy beaten by an unkind father – one whose dragon Harry had fought beside, now both long dead – of a scar. Of a loathed birthright – a dragon's sword, stolen from the dead; the childish notion that this meant he would not be of use to a king that watched from afar.

Of the boy finding himself without father or mother, alone in a court that feared him and respected him in turn; of always knowing he was watched, though not even the king could know or control everything. Of the hope this knowledge brought.

Of the death of a friend, of the determination to build anew what had been corrupted over the ages – memories of finding a boy, a dragon, and a dying old man; suspicious of him until his last breath. Of an impossible journey over sand to reach people that the king disapproved of, rebels that fought for the old ways. Of a battle that brought about this boy kidnapping…the point of the battle, the boy learned to his sorrow only later.

The new life of his little dragon hatchling, of being manipulated by Galbatorix (though the boy only now recognized it as such) into getting his true name from his dragon; though not even the boy knew his dragons true name. This might have been by luck – though Harry knew it was his own doing at work.

Of a battle between blood brothers, of a sure certainty that both would life forever to serve a hated master; and they younger brothers shinning blue dragon would be violated by… Harry could not help but snort with surprise, as in Murtagh's mind was a surety that Galbatorix would have him – Harry/ Shruikan –mate with a hatchling not even a year old! It was ridiculous.

Harry opened one green eye (for Murtagh stood to one side of his head; Galbatorix the other); it looked into Murtagh as easily as the dark haired boy had looked into Shruikan and found only what he was meant to - the stillness of mind like a great sleeping lake. It was in Harry's eyes –eyes that had hid behind closed lids since the last dragon had died - that the truth was made clear. His eyes were still the alive, vibrant green that they had always been. Though, perhaps, now they were a bit dull with his wish of death and sickness of life.

Murtagh took a step back, his eyes wide with the realization that Harry was no more asleep or unaware as his own Thorn ever was. He was frightened, he would call out, and it was then that Harry spoke.

" _I have not mated with any dragon in all my life. It is a great sorrow of Galbatorix_ …" His words came slowly, leaving his mind only for a moment before being taken into Murtagh's own mind, he was understood. So hungry was the boy for knowledge he did not realize his thoughts had stilled, his 'work' in magic ceased, and that would certainly be noticed; unless something was done.

Harry opened his other eye then, raised his head up slowly, so he looked down at the two Riders. His mouth gapped open in a wide yawn, tongue lolling and curling, showing off the sharpness of his teeth. It was then his gaze fixed on Galbatorix.

" _I am hungry_ …"

Harry was not without his sense of humor.


	2. Lighting In His Eyes

Harry opened his other eye then, raised his head up slowly, so he looked down at the two Riders. His mouth gapped open in a wide yawn, tongue lolling and curling, showing off the sharpness of his teeth. It was then his gaze fixed on Galbatorix.

" _I am hungry_ …"

Harry was not without his sense of humor.

O.o.O.o.O.o.O

" _ **No! Please**_!" Alarm – almost panic - trilled at the edges of his mind, paining him, for it was not his own feelings but another's that was being thrust at him. He snarled aloud, alarming the two Riders – both stepping back, wary. He realized belatedly that he had underestimated Thorn's curiosity of him, that he would cling within his Riders senses to get a glimpse of Harry.

" _ **Not me, not him, not mine**_!" Thorn thought in a plea, Harry really would _eat_ him. Confused by the squalling plea that ached like an open wound within his mind, Harry shook his head, hard – it did nothing to dislodge the keening plea - feeling the quills at his neck quiver, the mane of stark white spines reacting instinctively to a perceived threat. Harry knew it did not help things – he looked all the more threatening to the Riders.

" _Enough_!" Harry hissed at Thorn like a lash of a whip, it was not a true lash, merely the echo of depthless demand. _Silly child_ …Harry murmured dazed, even as he felt Thorn withdraw. Thorn had grown tentative, clinging and silent to the fringes of Harry's consciousness– still there, but not so blindingly vivid; his mind felt too still although Harry knew him to be shocked. It could have been likened to the wide eyes of a child slapped for misbehavior for the first time.

" _ **Please**_ …?" It was alike a half sob, a mental whimper that would not be heard by any other. Harry knew Thorn perceived him to be starved and harsh, perhaps capable of slaying his own false Rider and Murtagh both.

" _I'll not eat them_ ," how could Harry explain his own twisted humor to Thorn, who had never known others to do such things? Thorn had only had his own poor example and that of the fiery Saphira to liken to dragon natures, " _I would not, even if I could; it is a rouse, your boy forgot his own mind, now they mind my nature and do not stalk their own weaknesses_." Harry knew he would not have much time to explain, for Galbatorix would not linger in his stilled surprise for long.

" _ **You have put yourself in such danger…for my Rider**_?" It was a confused whine, a question that Harry knew he was out of time to answer. Harry had not stood, had not lumbered to his feet or beat open his wings – Galbatorix would never give him such a chance. Harry felt his mind unfold, forced open like a bud fingered open by a curious child. Deadened red eyes filled his mind, forcing him to silence, forcing him beneath the depths of his own mind, beneath the too still waters…

Not for the first time, he feared drowning…

O.o.O.o.O.o.O

Murtagh let the familiar movement and dull scrapping sound of sharpening his father's sword smooth out the voices within his mind. At times it felt as if he was swimming through them, unsure if he were truly within his own mind or one of _them_ , of the haunting horde that Galbatorix had pressed upon him to better force his will to be done. If you were commanded, and heard a hundred voices echoing it – demanding that same action – it grew harder to have a will and thoughts and doubts that were your own.

Murtagh feared the day he gave in without struggle to the voices, to Galbatorix…

He gritted his teeth then, remembering Shruikan... There had been – still was, he preyed; _life_ and thoughts that were not controlled within the black dragon, still, even when Galbatorix forced his will upon it, it did not give in to its Rider, connected and bound to each other as they had been for centuries, Shruikan resisted. Murtagh pledged to himself that he would follow that example... that sense of spirit that rested within the still dragon.

Thorn had quivered for days, eating as if staved and rabid, thoughtless in his intense fear for Shruikan. Murtagh knew that Thorn had pushed himself into the mind of the black dragon before Galbatorix had forced his hand; Thorn had murmured to him only last night that Shruikan struggled beneath the false sleep, even still…

" _ **We must do something for him, my Rider…some respite from**_ _ **Galbatorix, he has not given**_ _ **Shruikan peace since**_ …" Thorn trailed off, sounding for the first time both young and unsure. Murtagh, as worried and grateful as he was to Shruikan – for because of the black dragon, Galbatorix did not narrow his bloodshot eyes his way, worried still more for Thorn, who clung to his link with Shruikan, keening Murtagh awake only to seem not to notice his waking.

"You ask me to provide a distraction?" Murtagh asked aloud, knowing that Thorn would hear him despite the distance. It did not matter what was said, Thorn would feel his emotions, would hear his thoughts – but saying it helped Murtagh to focus, to think of plans and places and possibilities.

" _ **If it can be done, it must be so – he is so still**_ …" Murtagh felt Thorn's fears, forcing him to confront his own – would Galbatorix be so reckless as to kill his only link to immortality and growing power? What then, if he did? Would he die outright as Murtagh might hope? Or would he turn his eyes to Thorn? Murtagh was no fool – he knew Shruikan was stolen; his Rider killed in his youth by Galbatorix…the same could be done to Thorn…Murtagh knew better then to think that Galbartorix could not plot such a thing or carry it out.

"For you only, Thorn, I would do this…" Murtagh stood then his steps echoing, hollow and distant behind him, as he walked to see Galbatorix and inquire to the health and whereabouts of his sibling…

O.o.O.o.O.o.O

"This is…very forward of you to offer, Murtagh." Galbatorix murmured, fingers tapping a rhythm into the hard wood of his throne. It was not as impressive as Murtagh thought it might look, he knew, at least, it was cushioned. Galbatorix liked his creature comforts as much as the next man.

"I want to get away, I want to fly; you, Master, have made it _very clear_ that I may only do this while looking for the Rebels." Murtagh was careful to lower his eyes ahead of time to the polished stones of the floor, hair falling forward so Galbatorix's gleaming eyes – like red coals of a dying fire, could not see his loathing of the fact.

It was enough that Galbatorix knew it when he pawed about within Murtagh's mind; there was no need to reinforce the distance and distrust with narrowed eyes and sneering. In that way only, Murtagh could be subtle with Galbatorix.

"Still, it is strange that you will to hunt your own brother when you make such solid excuses ahead of time to my plans for your outings." Murtagh pressed his lips, the only sign of his ire. Still, he dared not look up, not even when Galbatorix shifted and stood the cloth ruffling and making Murtagh tense.

"Does this turn of mind, perhaps have something to do with what you saw of my Shruikan?" Galbatorix asked in kindly tones, still standing at a distance to Murtagh though he made no excuses to closing the distance in his own time. There was nothing between them. Still Murtagh stood with bowed head, his back and shoulders tense.

"Perhaps…" Murtagh hissed the word out, willing Galbatorix to find his own conclusions without digging about within Murtagh's mind, sometimes it worked, other times it did not.

"So, you see what a dragon becomes without a mate and do not what the same to happen to your Thorn?" Galbatorix murmured, drawing the words out, amused, Murtagh did not relax though he allowed his head to dip lower in perceived acknowledgement.

"Ah…tell me, does your brother have the eyes of my Morzan?" Galbatorix purred the words out, mockingly. Murtagh bit his lips closed, knowing his flushed features could be taken either way – he dared not speak. Seeing his reaction, Galbatorix laughed, Murtagh took it for what it was; a dismissal. He told himself he was not running, though his stride was quicker when leaving then arriving.

O.o.O.o.O.o.O

" _ **You should not let him disturb you so**_ … _ **I will protect you**_." Only when Murtagh was out of sight of Galbatorix's stronghold did he let himself tremble upon Thorn's back. How he loathed it, that he feared Galbartorix – that much was a true, only a fool would not. He also loathed the implications of his father – or what Galbatorix might do to his brother. It sickened him.

"You can not protect me from myself; it is my mind he rummages through…prey that it is enough for him." Thorn's chest rumbled, a half snarl, though he kept his jaws clenched tightly shut. Thorn loathed him, in part, because of humanity which treated Murtagh poorly and outnumbered him to the point where Thorn had to go out of his way to avoid little villages and travels along the roads. Thorn had no blue hide; there was no mistaking him for anything but what he was – a dragon of the old tales.

" _Fools…should not fly_ …" It was a whisper, but it was not a voice – though its likeness was too like Shruikan to be ignored. Beneath him, Thorn rumbled a soft cry of glad greeting, it washed over Murtagh as well, Thorn had been frightened their rouse to gain the whole of Galbatorix's attentions would not work, but it was clear now that it had. That Shruikan had recovered enough for this small communication was testament to how far Galbatorix's attentions had strayed.

"We must fly, to see that you recover." Murtagh murmured, looking below him to the passing land. There was a freedom in this, in flight that he had not anticipated until he had first flown with Thorn. It was enthralling.

" _My life is not worth so much, it has been a long life – it is enough_." Thorn hissed, a predator noise, like an angry serpent, but Murtagh could not help his muffled chuckle. He felt the thrill of delight that Shruikan kindled to find them in flight. It made him bold; to think such a being as Shruikan could feel so…human. Familiar in a way that Thorn could not understand for his own forced upbringing, which, Murtagh knew, was no natural thing and had been forced upon him – another of Murtagh's many sins.

"Have you thought, oh mighty one, what he will do to us if you die? He will take my Thorn from me, my life too, likely, all for your sorry hide." Thorn lurched upward to flip – which he knew Murtagh did not like, but Shruikan could not hide his glee in the movement so Murtagh forgave Thorn. It was so easy to forget how ill the black dragon had looked when he was within their minds, not crowding, or invading, merely _there_ , as if that was how he was supposed to be. It was a comfort, though a strange one.

" _So it is not merely for me, but for yourselves you do such a foolish thing – very well, I approve_." Murtagh felt his lips twist into a smile; it was easy to like Shruikan – bearable for al that had been done to him as a slave to Galbatorix. Murtagh had expected some other nature – a worse one – like his father. He was glad for his mistake. Shruikan may have been used, but he was not yet broken for it. They were not broken. Not yet.

" _ **Where do I fly**_?" Thorn's question – directed toward Shruikan, was a surprise to Murtagh.

" _Saphira has left Eragon – at his own request, in the lands of_ _Helgrind_ …" This answer came reluctantly, and it was unexpected to Murtagh, who had seen his own brother only four days past in the Battle of the Burning Plains, on the outskirts of Surda. He would not have expected it of Eragon to come so closely into the Empire. It was either a foolish move, or brilliant one, but Murtagh did not linger on his brothers reasoning, as a suspicion stirred within his mind.

"How do you know this, Shruikan?" Murtagh's mind stilled, peaceful, even if it was only the surface and a pleasant illusion with the wind that stirred within his hair. Thorn too had gown silent, withdrawing, as if cautious of Murtagh's reaction to whatever answer was given.

" _I am old Murtagh, there is a power that comes with age, and I have felt the young of my kind – the potential within their precious shells, the life bursting forth as they breathe this world's air for the first time. There is little else for me to do, but to listen for them, to share what I know with them. There is little enough harm in this small help I may give to Thorn_ …" Listening to Shruikan, Murtagh knew his reasoning was sound enough, but he found also that he feared for him. If Galbatorix ever ventured to find out this truth…Murtagh had never thought that there was such danger, but in telling _him_ , Shruikan had put himself in even greater danger…

" _I would find my end before I let him betray my kith and kin_ …" There was finality in his tone that Murtagh admired, for it could not be dismissed, he was sure then – in that moment, that in that way Shruikan would ensure until his last breath that they – the whole of his race and their Riders – would not be betrayed.

"I will not let that happen on my end - still, it is a useful trick." Murtagh allowed, the only acknowledgement of the promise that Shruikan had given. Thorn rumbled a dry agreement, tilting his wings so they spiraled downward, descending to a ground that glistened like sweat and blood. Their flight had been swift, and Murtagh found he ached to still be airborne. In this, he knew Shruikan shared his desire.

"Does _he_ know we are coming, I wonder?" Murtagh mused looking disdainfully over the tired land – the spiraling earthen spears that thrust into the sky and in the distance the city that slept. It was dark now, for twilight had come quickly upon them. Murtagh sighed, bemused to see a cloud of white follow his breath into the near night air.

" _He_ does now." Murtagh had tensed, surprised, for this was no whispering of a dragons voice; this was his only sibling, his brother in blood. He turned to look over his shoulder, to see Eragon there, with his narrowed eyes and scowl. There was fear there too, deeper within him…

He noticed also, that Thorn had watched this, quite content with his Rider be taken by surprise as he had been.

"Traitor…" He murmured to Thorn, unable to help some fondness creep into his tone, Thorn snorted softly, taking no insult in his words. Eragon raised his brow, looking between dragon and sibling, conflicted. Murtagh had not moved to defend, and Thorn had settled onto his belly, content to watch. As if to prove his disinterest, he yawned.

"Why are you here, Murtagh?" Eragon asked of him, sounding tired beyond his years.

"For a talk, Galbatorix still wants you at his side, but he gave no new orders – I think in this I will surprise him." Murtagh mused, his words as vague as he had intended, Eragon clenched his hands, aware of how alone he was – how vulnerable he had made himself by sendingSaphira away with Katrina and Ronan upon her back.

"So talk." Eragon growled the word out.

"I need your help, little brother, a friend of ours…he is… dying, and I seek now to bring down Galbatorix while he still may see it done – only you and your Varden can help me in this." It was painful to admit it aloud, even Thorn seemed surprised in his words, but Eragon merely sneered.

"You would have a friend? Who would bother with _you_?" Murtagh pressed his lips closed – he would not drive away this chance merely because of his temper. Thorn though, took attention to Eragon's words, growling soft and low.

" _ **Our friend is**_ _ **Shruikan – and he dies in our place, soon he might falter, might fall, when he does, I take his place, and Murtagh dies – would you toss that fate upon us, Rider? Are you so heartless**?_ " Thorn stared at Eragon, his gleaming red eyes turned upon the younger, catching him unexpectedly in his intent gaze.

"N-no…" Eragon whispered the word, lowering his own eyes to the ground. Murtagh, for the first time, kindled the hope that this might work – that he might live to see Galbatorix's blood spilt over his precious polished stone floor.

That, he might, one day soon be…free; that his mind might one day be his own.


	3. Dancing Scarlet, Clashing Sapphire

" _ **Our friend is**_ _ **Shruikan – and he dies in our place, soon he might falter, might fall, when he does, I take his place, and Murtagh dies – would you toss that fate upon us, Rider? Are you so heartless**_ _?_ " Thorn stared at Eragon, his gleaming red eyes turned upon the younger, catching him unexpectedly in his intent gaze.

"N-no…" Eragon whispered the word, lowering his own eyes to the ground. Murtagh, for the first time, kindled the hope that this might work – that he might live to see Galbatorix's blood spilt over his precious polished stone floor.

That, he might, one day soon be…free; that his mind might one day be his own.

O.o.O.o.O.o.O

"What…what do you want _me_ to do, Murtagh?" Eragon was frustrated and it was beginning to show. There was certain helplessness to his tone and tensed shoulders, however much he didn't like to show it – they both knew Thorn had hit a nerve.

Eragon had trusted Murtagh as they traveled – he had been both friend and comrade – now it was different. Eragon wished sometimes that things could go back to how they had been. That he and Murtagh had never been separated; that Murtagh had never suffered under the will of Galbatorix. Still, it did not change things – Murtagh could not be trusted fully so long as he was under the sway of Galbatorix, _yet_ – Eragon still felt keenly the bond that lingered between them. It was something, he knew, that would never go away.

"Just… _help us_ , Eragon, that all I'll ever ask of you. Leave the rest to us." It was reassuring that Murtagh was still so sure of them. That together they could accomplish what they could not do alone; they could and _would_ rid themselves of Galbatorix – so long as they worked together.

"A-alright, Saphira wouldn't like it, but I do still trust you to know what you're doing, Murtagh." He wished he hadn't admitted it so easily, but he couldn't help it. This was the first sign that he had – that he was _clinging_ to – that there was still some of the Murtagh he had known and trusted within the twisted pawn that Galbatorix had created.

"Good to know, little brother." Steady brown eyes glanced quickly to meet their fiercer counterpart, there were hurt and doubt that hung heavily between them – but Eragon found himself trusting that like a wound; it would heal with time. It was another bond that could be forged and make them stronger in the long run.

"So, _what is_ your plan?" Eragon asked softly, saying nothing of the affection that had lingered in Murtagh's voice after declaring him his brother. Eragon would not fight his parentage; if the only good thing that had come of that knowledge was this chance to rebuild a stronger bond with Murtagh – he would take that gladly.

Then he saw the reckless grin that stretched over Murtagh's lips. He knew then that whatever Murtagh had planned was dangerous and cunning – and would (curse Murtagh and his "luck"; which he smugly referred to as "good planning")… likely work.

O.o.O.o.O.o.O

Eragon had not wanted to, but he had found no other choice when soldiers had joined him on the road, heading into a town. Behind him, the gates closed. He pressed his lips together, knowing that Murtagh was doing his best to find Eragon _elsewhere_ within the Empire. The very land reacted to Riders, yet Murtagh claimed that the lands knew Murtagh –for he too was a Rider, and even Galbatorix who the land knew better them both combined could not fault Murtagh for being "confused" while searching out his brother in this way. That too was yet another lie – Murtagh had found him easily, seemingly without any effort at all.

Still, a few soldier loitered about these lands – they could hardly go unguarded while the search was going on; or while an undeclared war was raging. Oh, Eragon _knew_ that Galbatorix had sent an army worth of men against him, yet, those men had been under spells that affected their memories. They would not tell any of the common men and women they protected what they had faced.

At least, not until Galbatorix died; in so far as the people knew, Eragon and his alleys were high minded country men who had tired of the taxes and left the Empire intent on returning and claiming their lands as a separate nation – or smugglers of peoples in and out of the Empire – or thieves who had found gold in the Spine (land that was the Empire and thus the peoples) and decided to keep it for themselves thus fleeing.

All likely reasons the Empire would want to track Eragon down; all equally false. He had wondered how they would react to knowing the truth. He had asked himself if they would approve – King's were not _supposed_ to live forever, yet theirs did. His death would end the cycle of taxes and simple life.

Eragon was not a fool, he had seen with his own eyes the metallic contraptions dwarves built, the better lives the elves had was not simply from living off the land – they too had secrets – though Eragon wondered if they would trust humans enough to share them. Still, if the elves did not – the dwarves were not unreasonable, trading readily with Surda and the Varden. He had been privy to the knowledge of magic – what it could do; what it could not.

Eragon knew it was tyranny that the Empire was all but dried lands between the oasis of cities – those lands were being drained of life, for centuries they had been barren – that was not natural. That was magic. Somehow, Galbatorix had tied his magic into the land – or the land reacted naturally poorly to his foul magic.

That was the least of his crimes. He kept _knowledge_ the people _should_ know to himself; unless a man was both a seeker of knowledge and privileged in life he might go his whole life without finding an answer. The "secrets" of dwarves and elves were only secret because the people where not _allowed_ to see them either the beings themselves or their knowledge (only hear of the wonders in hushed whispers) that was tyranny of a different kind.

Galbatorix was cunning so he kept his people simple as sheep, thus he kept power and his hold over them. They merely had to go on living –doing jobs that often were learnt in families - and they served him. A person could not go to a library that was not guarded; story tellers were little better then beggars – there was no way to make a life better then what you were born with if you wanted to stay honest.

It was that sort of tyranny the people of the Empire lived under. Only, they could not _see_ it – they did not have the privilege – the knowledge - to _know_. Even nobles born were corrupt but favored by Galbatorix and did not seek to know what was beyond their wealth and private. All of them, from common to noble – sheep drugged by the herdsman that was king.

It _infuriated_ Eragon.

Yet he could do nothing but what he was doing. He could only goad Galbatorix from beyond his Empire – he could be but bait.

Until now...

Now, he had but to follow Murtagh's plan and they could throw down Galbatorix even if they could not kill him. Murtagh had told him of Shruikan; try as he might to think of how someone who had been the prisoner of Galbatorix would act and think – he could not grasp that sort of being. He would be a terrorizing and vengeful alley – yet scarred and flawed. That would have to be dealt with. There was no magic strong enough to heal him, it would take time – ages and ages of it. It would take someone he trusted. Eragon had to wonder – was there such a person? Would there ever be?

In those thoughts and moments, he pitied Shruikan as much as he felt awed by him.

Eragon scanned the inn room, his eyes picking out at once a woman –human? – whose resemblance to Arya could not be overlooked. Murtagh was perhaps rubbing off on him for he caught her eye (they widened only a little with surprise) and she beckoned for him to join her at her table. He did so, welcoming her with a probe of his mind which was returned – in his mind he could see the tangle of their thoughts like silver threads entwined. There could be no faking such a thing.

Eragon let himself relax, if only a little. He was not traveling alone on this last league of his journey. It was something of a relief; though he would have to tell Murtagh swiftly of the change.

His brother would have to advance his plans. He would have to "find" Eragon swiftly; too quickly to return to Galbatorix and complicate matters. Murtagh could claim –if this failed (which Eragon vowed it would not) – that he had become overeager at a chance to capture Eragon that he had risked the attempt alone.

Arya could not know or suspect. Not yet.

O.o.O.o.O.o.O

Eragon felt as if his skin was crawling. At the edge of Surda within the heart of the city-camp of the Varden – he was _supposed_ to be safe. He was giving that up for a chance – the possibility that he could get Murtagh – his brother, his once best friend – back at his side. It was still eerie; even he did not know when Murtagh would make his move – would it be day or night? How much time could Murtagh spare before "finding" him?

He did not linger on those thoughts for long – he felt Saphira near him, her mind seeking his and like a bee to a blooming flower she flew up high, joyfully letting out a burgling howl of gladness which erupted blue flames that flickered about her as she flew through them, descending – _plummeting_ – to meet him. She landing at a crouch, a lesser person would have clung to the ground, though not because of her furious glinting eyes – no, merely because she had shook the earth beneath their feet at her landing.

Impatient to be reassured of his presence she shoved her head against his chest like a large cat, a grumbling purr echoing like a hum in the air. She could have knocked him over, but she did not knowing better then to do so despite her enthusiasm.

 _I smell Murtagh, you have had dealings with him_ …? There was almost a panicked fear in her mental voice, though he only rubbed and the soft scales beneath her eyelids reassuringly with rough fingers – the only soothing he could provide to that itch. The only one she trusted so. Those gleaming jewel eyes lowered, wary and content, though the question still lingered between them.

 _I have. He approached me after you left – you had flown too far to call you back. We have a plan. He wishes to be free of Galbatorix – he has a…friend he seeks to see free of him as well_. Eragon marveled at their acting, he felt content with Saphira her wings half extended as she crouched, balanced carefully half around him. It would look friendly and give no hint to the conversation that stretched between their minds.

 _Who would Murtagh call friend_ …? Saphira mused, he felt her dislike and curiosity though their connection. She knew he would know if the name had been shared.

 _Shruikan…will you hear his plan_? Eragon asked of her, curious and attentive – her large head pulled away from him to look about them never so content to trust her surrounding without being wary for his sake. He was her only weakness and he feared she had learned this too well over her short life.

 _I will, tell it as we parade about for them_ … There was bitter humor in her, and Eragon patted her reassuringly. He had never intended to live so openly with her at his side; he hated their gawking as much as she did. Perhaps more so, for it reminded him of the quiet life - what he could not give to her.

Eragon did not have the chance to explain. People had gathered about them – soldiers on duty and off – gawking and grinning like all the rest. They were the main event. It occurred to Eragon – this, with the city-camp of the Varden so distracted with welcoming back Eragon; they would be the perfect targets.

He heard the warning growl like the rumbling mountain about to erupt – impossible to ignore; impossible to mistake.

 _Little one…?_ Saphira murmured to him, her muscles tensed as she stood over him protectively; so he could not be seen from the air. He should have _known_ Murtagh would be so inclined to his dramatics.

Eragon felt his heart fill with dread – he could not help his gut reaction to this open challenge while so exposed - then he looked above them, a mar of red glimmered in the dying light of the horizon. He heard the silence settle about him, as it sunk in that they were about to be attacked, unprepared – for all their defenses, and preparing - each one of them had failed when it mattered most.

Eragon looked to the red dragon, knowing that it rested on his shoulders to carry out his brother's plan – it was a burden he must not falter to take. He had to make this look real – for it was _real_ , in all that it was also planed (battle plans, he remembered, went much the same way but one could not predict all outcomes in battle, but it always helped – a little, made some difference to have a battle plan if only because of moral)… he knew Murtagh would not hold back.

 _We must fight, Saphria_ … He shared a look with Arya even as he moved toward his tent – Thorn was still flying in the far distance having given his warning – a mistake (that was not a mistake) that a youngling might make going into battle the first few times. When he stepped into his tent he was he was not alone – twelve elf spell crafters stood about holding bits of dragon armor – they seemed to remember well what to do as they began to settle the dwarf made armor into place.

"I am Blödhgarm, Shadeslayer, and though we can not fly into battle with you – we _will_ be with you." An elf that looked so much like a wolf – Eragon got the sense he was their leader even as this elf helped his fellows in a task that would have been thought beneath a human leader – claimed. Eragon tried not to look him in the eye as he wrestled his armor from his pack. He wondered as he outfitted himself if he would cause the deaths of these elves in his attempt to save Murtagh and the dragons Thorn and Shruikan…

 _Is it worth it_? He asked himself, unaware that he had let the thought slip to Saphira.

 _Great sacrifices must be made to achieve the greatest benefit_. Saphira whispered into his mind, he found himself agreeing with her logic when both of them were dressed in armor – cries outside alerted them to the fact that they had no choice but to be ready – Eragon clambered a back of her, settling into his saddle - where the white spikes along her neck stopped and the spikes along her back began.

Saphira rose from her crouch, leaping from the opening of the tent and running along the ground to gain speed and momentum – her movements a wolf like loupe – until with a lurch of wings and a long jump she was airborne – she claimed higher into the air, desperate to meet Thorn before he flew over the Varden city-camp and set it alight.

Eragon hated in that moment that both he and Murtagh – and Thorn and Saphira with them – must act the part of pawns. He wondered wildly, his blood thrumming with adrenalin as he saw Murtagh astride Thorn (his black hair flung back like a mane; his expression matching Eragon's own with a terrifying grin and wicked eyes) what would their puppeteers make of the fact that pawns had secret plans of their own?

Then he heard nothing but battle sound – and thought of nothing but gaining the upper hand. It was a dual – a match evenly set, Eragon was reminded of his sparring practice with Murtagh. This would only be – he vowed - a different sort of flip of a similar coin; they would begin healing after this was done.


End file.
